Her hands were ribbons beamed from the sun, a diffusion of gold bars through dense forest. That was when she worked on my legs. Like trunks. Strong. Steady. Rooted. Pulling the sap up from the soles of my feet, the sustaining nurturance. Her fingers working at my back brought warrior images: on the left dorsal stood a fierce masked one in red; on the right was the counterpart, in blue. Fire and water. Engulfing, submersing. Mars in me. Aries and Scorpio. Each breath pulled at me and drew me deeper below, and the visions kept coming. A page ripped in half, or a curtain, and butterflies appearing in the crevice between, crawling out, clawing out. A swarm.
And on my neck! Those hard cords of muscles on my neck, when plucked like harp strings, blasted open a spinning disc in my throat–the aqua chakra, the one that all the psychics say is blocked in me, the one they say is clouded and muffled. When it began to throb and shine, I felt a pulsing in my solar plexus. Power chakra.
Shine on, sweet.
I love you for your